


Led up of the Spirit into the wilderness

by robokittens



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Episode: s01e03 The Ladder, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Religious Guilt, Spiritual Confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24115099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: "I can only imagine what horrors Mr Gibson spread, to make you so afraid.""Afraid?" John can't help the way the word leaps out of him."For my soul," Hickey says simply.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Lt John Irving
Comments: 24
Kudos: 75





	Led up of the Spirit into the wilderness

**Author's Note:**

> thank you!! to the terror fandom, for embracing and encouraging me. and thank you, always, to reserve, for both dragging me along with you and kicking me into shape.

It's not a surprise, somehow, when John sees Mr Hickey coming towards him, his caulker's tools in hand. That he'd appeared just when John was retiring to his cabin was, also, perhaps less a surprise than John would wish.

"Lieutenant," Hickey says. It's almost respectful, the way he says it, and there's a ghost of a smile on his face as he comes to a halt just half a step too close. He inclines his head: up, to look John in the face; to the side, toward John's cabin. "I believe there's something —"

"Nothing needs doing," John says. It's too swift, perhaps, the way he cuts Hickey off, from the way the man's smile only deepens. 

"There's something needs fixing," Hickey says. He doesn't open John's door, but he puts his hand on it. John can't quite help the stutter in his breath, but he hopes the annoyance on his face masks it. At least if he turns, he won’t have to look Hickey in the eye.

"Come in then," he says, sliding the door open. "Make it quick."

It's no surprise, either, when Hickey shuts the door behind them. He sets his tools down with a degree of care that John would not have anticipated; he'd not have guessed that Hickey was so careful with anything.

Hickey leans against the door, arms folded across his chest, slouching with unearned ease. It's not so much that he projects an air of belonging wherever he goes — it's not that at all; John remembers well watching him stumble on deck when they first left Greenhithe, no sea legs to speak of. It's more that he'll arrive at a place and make himself comfortable there, as if he's _decided_ he belongs, and in deciding, makes it so.

"What is it," John says. It's not quite a question; he doesn't quite want to know. He moves to lean against his bed, but he doesn't want this devil thinking of his bed, and so he pulls himself up straight. This isn't the smallest cabin he's had, by far not the least room he's had to himself on a ship — but he feels caught, here. Claustrophobic. Hickey is still too close, and the door shut behind him.

Hickey smiles at him, again, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes: doesn't have time to before he drops it, his face a mask of solemnity. "I'm just concerned, Lieutenant." Sober, quiet, but in earnest. "When you spoke to Bi— to Mr Gibson, what did he tell you? I fear that he may have … misrepresented me."

"'Misrepresented' you?" John can hear how hollow his own voice sounds, repeating Hickey's words back to him. "Are you claiming that he slandered you? Were his claims untrue, Mr Hickey?"

Hickey‘ s smile returns: his eyes crinkle at the corners, mirthful, like they're sharing an inside joke.

"Lieutenant Irving," he says, half laughing, half as if in disbelief. "How can I possibly contest his words if you won't tell me what they were? He won't tell me straight about it, so —" He shrugs loosely, cocks his head, still smiling. "I'm left to fear the worst. I can hardly imagine … Well. I can only imagine what horrors he's spread, to make you so afraid."

" _Afraid_?" John can't help the way the word leaps out of him. 

"For my soul," Hickey says simply. As if it were obvious.

He doesn't mean to merely echo Hickey, doesn't mean to even form his mouth around the man's words — wouldn't mean to form himself to anything so devised. But still, he finds himself repeating, almost in disbelief: "Your soul." 

"Isn't that your concern, Lieutenant? My immortal soul? You seemed to have concern for it, when we spoke the other day."

John cuts his eyes away, and then forces them back, makes himself look Hickey in the eye. "There is nothing to contest, Mr Hickey. I can see now for myself that what he said was true: you have a wicked tongue."

He watches the laughter build: a twitching of Hickey's mouth, which then splits into a wide grin, his eyes leaving John for the first time as his head ducks down to his chest. His shoulders shake. There's something about the way he peers at John without straightening up that's near enough to make John shiver, the broad smile and nearly coy look to his eyes. His voice is low, pleased, when he speaks again. "Is that what he told you, Lieutenant?"

John can feel his spine stiffen unbidden, the sharp breath he sucks in through his teeth, his whole core clenching in — alarm? In horror? He's not sure what it is he feels now; it is not fear, but perhaps a sibling to it. He forces a calm he does not feel into his words: he has faced worse devils than this.

"It is, Mr Hickey. That you tempted him to evil with your wicked tongue. I cannot imagine — I would never _want_ to imagine what you must have said to him, to lead a man astray in such a way. He is a good man, Mr Gibson; lapsed, perhaps, but Godly in his heart. He _wants_ to be a good man." 

Hickey is still smiling. He looks, somehow, as if every word that tumbles from John's lips is anything other than castigation, other than censure; he looks as if it is _praise_. John feels his words falter, dying on his tongue.

"And you, Lieutenant?" It's awful, how sincere he sounds with that glint in his eyes; though it seems the words should be dripping with malice, his tone is even. "Are you a good man, sir? Do you _want_ to be?"

John takes a breath. He moves to square his shoulders, only to find they're drawn up tight. "I do, Mr Hickey. And I am, to the best of my ability. We all fall short of the Lord — some shorter than others. But I aim to be as close to Him as my faults allow."

"And you would not be tempted, then? By a wicked tongue?"

There is a horror dawning in John, now, as he realizes that Hickey has moved closer. One step, two, without John even noticing. The room is not large; it feels smaller. Hickey does not move to touch him, but he cocks his head again, considering. Another step. 

"I have resisted much temptation in my time, Mr Hickey."

"And how did you do it?" Hickey doesn't take another step, but he rocks forward, just slightly, light on his feet. "Climbing exercises, sir?"

John feels fear, still, but also a sense of righteousness. It is not native to him to assume his superiority to others, in a spiritual manner, but there is no doubt he holds the advantage here.

"Among other things, Mr Hickey. Fellowship. Reading. The singing of psalms. You might try prayer."

"Prayer." Hickey turns the word in his mouth, draws it out. It sounds foreign on his tongue. John thinks he might repeat it, under his breath, but for as close as they are he cannot hear it. 

And they are. Close. 

"Would you pray now, Lieutenant? For me?" This near, John can see how light his eyes are. There's a brightness to them, a fervor.

"I would pray with you," John says. He is surprised at how steady his voice is, even now. "If you will pray with me."

There is something genuine about Hickey's smile for just a moment before his lips curve into a smirk. His mouth is wicked, even closed. He's moved closer, somehow, without John realizing it. John stands firm, will not take even a step back. He will not cede ground to this attempt at intimidation.

"You can pray if you'd like, Lieutenant." His voice is smooth, calm. He leans in, just close enough that John can feel the stale warmth of his breath. John does not flinch, but it's a near thing. "I'll be on my knees, but if you'd like, you can pray."

He does flinch, then, as Hickey's fingers land feather-light on his hip, beneath his jacket. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but the words, if he ever had them, die on his tongue. Hickey unfastens his trousers, presses his fingers behind the waistband of his underwear, and pulls both down, down, down with him as he goes. 

He thinks Hickey's name, but cannot say it. He thinks any number of things. He is not sure if it is right, to send a prayer to the Heavens that he is flaccid when Hickey pulls him loose; to be grateful implies that it could be otherwise, but … he is grateful, nonetheless.

Hickey strokes him. Once, twice, feeling out the length of him. John takes a breath. He could push Hickey away, _knows_ he could do so. Knows he _should_ do so. A kick to the stones, a knee to the face. But he is unnaturally frozen. Shock and fear and something ill burning in his stomach. His face, too, is burning; he does not remember the last time he was truly warm, but he knows if someone were to touch him now, they would feel a heat licking at his skin, beneath it, inside him.

This is nothing, though, he knows. Nothing compared to the heat he will feel later, and eternally, should he permit Hickey to do this. Should he fail to move him away. He can feel Hickey's breath warm over his prick and his own breath catches in his throat. To his great shame, he can feel himself begin to grow hard in Hickey's hand. His eyes are shut — when did he shut his eyes?

He can tell Hickey is smiling, though, his mouth against John's length. It is not a pleasant feeling, at least: the coarse hairs of his moustache against such sensitive skin. It is no better when Hickey begins pressing little kisses up and down it, such a horrible facsimile of tenderness that John cannot help the gasp that's ripped out of him.

"Please," John says. He can't believe how weak his own voice sounds. "Please," he says again, please _stop_ , but the word catches in his throat as Hickey applies those sinful lips to the head of his cock. His foreskin is pulling back on its own, and Hickey helps it along, slides it up and down. Playing with it. 

_Please_ , John thinks again, squeezing his eyes tight as if that could block out all sensation, but when Hickey takes him into his mouth there is no denying that he feels it. He has never — never. In the darkest nights, at his lowest points, lonely and aching and missing home … he's never even let himself imagine. His hands clench at his sides, nails digging into his own palms.

Hickey's thumb smooths over his inner thigh, back and forth, gentle, as if John is a frightened beast to be calmed. And in this moment, perhaps he is. Hickey's mouth is so hot around him, his tongue its own animal: unrelenting, undulating, primal. The horror he feels is not enough to keep his prick from swelling further under Hickey's ministrations.

If he had ever let himself imagine this — not Hickey, of course, not this creature on its knees before him in a mockery of penitence … if he'd allowed himself even briefly to think upon Malcolm, or upon Katie — and he is not sure which of those would be the greater sin — he would not have imagined anything like this.

Hickey is unrelenting in his movements, his head bobbing between John's legs, fingers no longer soothing but an iron grip on his thighs. When John dares open his eyes, he notes as if from a distance that Hickey's hair is still pristine, slicked back down to his shoulders. His shirt collar is askew, and one of John's hands uncurls from its fist, fingers twitching against the impulse to fix it. Hickey's hand moves to cover it, and for just a moment their fingers tangle.

It is that, somehow, that does John in. The audacity of it, the intimacy … his eyes shut again, his knees threaten to go out from under him. It is only Hickey's grasp, and the weak remaining threads of John's will, that hold him upright. He feels himself swell and spill into Hickey's mouth; he can feel Hickey swallow around him. Somehow, it is John who chokes.

It is too long a moment before Hickey, mercifully, at last pulls away. "It's poor manners not to warn a man," he says. His voice is raw but unbothered. John blinks his eyes open and, to his horror, sees a drop of his own spend in Hickey's beard. Even when the man drags the back of his hand across his mouth, it remains.

"Are you a man?" John asks, with not quite the venom he'd intended. He can hear how weak he sounds; he can see it reflected in the satisfaction on Hickey's face.

Hickey climbs to his feet with a grace that seems nearly unnatural. Surely someone who would so debase himself should be weaker, less at ease with himself, and yet Hickey merely twists his shoulders, cranes his neck as if to work out a kink in it before settling into a proper posture. The look of quiet pleasure on his face does not abate. 

"What else would I be, Lieutenant?" he asks, and John finds he does not have an answer. After a moment's pause, Hickey nods in John's direction; when John follows his gaze he realizes his prick still hangs exposed, his clothing still pushed down around his thighs, and he hastens to set himself to rights. He knows what he has done, and the Lord knows, but at least he can hide the evidence of his sin.

Hickey walks neatly backward, his eyes still on John's face, where John can feel the heat rise once again. He is struck anew by the assurance Hickey carries in his slender form. Their mutual gaze breaks only when Hickey bends to pick up his tools. He turns toward the door and only once he has placed a hand on it seems to hesitate, looking back over his shoulder.

"Even your Christ was tempted once, Lieutenant." His voice is soft, nearly apologetic.

John cannot bring himself to meet his gaze, to even look at the man in front of him. If ever he had resolve, he can feel it slipping from him. He can barely recognize his own voice as he chokes out, "He resisted."

"Oh," Hickey says, a curious note to his tone. "I suppose that's so."

It is only when John hears the door slide close that he sinks to his knees.

**Author's Note:**

> fun biographical note: while at sea (and also while failing at sheep farming in australia), the historical john irving wrote many letters to his (ahem) "intimate friend" william e malcolm, as well as to his sister-in-law, kate. if you feel like having a good cry about it, his letters are reproduced in part [here](https://books.google.ca/books?id=AEcBAAAAQAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false).


End file.
